Chapter 118 – What Was Almost Lost
Giselle sat on the porch beside Rowan, her hand wrapped in his, grounding herself in the feel of his warmth. His skin was still clammy beneath her fingers, his body trembling faintly from the pain that wracked it, but he was here. Breathing. Alive.
She couldn’t stop staring at him.
She’d almost lost him.
The thought kept repeating in her head, looping through her mind like a ghost refusing to be exorcised. She’d almost lost him. His blood had painted the ground. His body had fallen so still. She’d held him in her lap, her tears falling in rivers down her cheeks, convinced that fate had finally succeeded in tearing him from her arms.
But then… his eyes had opened. He had come back to her.
She reached out now, brushing her fingers along the scruff of his jaw. He leaned into her touch, eyes closed, breathing shallow but steady. That little gesture—the way he still sought her touch, even through the pain—nearly undid her again.
A sound drifted through the quiet, one that tore into her chest like claws.
A wail.
Then another. Followed by a third.
Giselle turned her head just as the first of the wagons rolled into the courtyard. Warriors walked alongside the wheels, their heads bowed, blood still streaking their armor. Some limped. Others helped carry the fallen in their arms when the wagons were too full.
Her stomach twisted violently.
One wagon… two… three… More rolled in behind them. Piled with bodies wrapped in sheets, some stained red with blood, others dark with soot and ash. She watched as a woman pushed through the crowd, shrieking a name before collapsing over a motionless form. Her cries echoed against the packhouse walls, splitting the air with raw agony.
Another scream. Then another.
They came like crashing waves.
Giselle’s throat tightened until it felt like she couldn’t breathe. She gripped Rowan’s hand tighter, blinking rapidly as tears welled in her eyes.
This—this was what she had escaped.
This could have been her.
She had been right there… had tasted that heartbreak, had felt it in her bones when Rowan went limp in her arms. She had whispered his name like a prayer, had begged him to return to her with every shred of her soul.
And he had.
He was the exception today. The miracle among so much death.
A sob rose in her chest, but she swallowed it down, forcing herself to stay upright. To stay strong. She owed that much to the women now falling to their knees across the courtyard.
She looked down at Rowan, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. Her vision blurred again, this time with silent tears. Her thumb traced idle circles along his hand, each motion a vow she would never again take for granted.
He came back to me.
Not all of them had.
And because of that, Giselle knew—she *knew*—that she would never let him face danger alone again. She would stand between him and the end of the world if she had to. Whatever power still stirred in her blood from the battle, whatever new strength the sword and Avella’s magic had left inside her, she would use it. Protect him. Shield him.
She wouldn’t lose him. Not again.
Giselle shifted on the porch steps, her eyes flickering between the bloodstained courtyard and Rowan’s pale face. Her body ached with exhaustion, but it was the tug in her chest—conflict pulling in two directions—that kept her pinned in place.
She wanted to go to them. The women who were now clutching the bodies of their mates, sons, brothers. She wanted to offer them comfort, to kneel beside them and wrap her arms around their shaking shoulders, to tell them that they weren’t alone in this. That their pain wasn’t being ignored.
But her hand was still tangled in Rowan’s. And she couldn’t seem to let go.
What if she did and he slipped away again?
The fear that had haunted her for what felt like a lifetime had only just begun to ease its grip. Her mate had been taken from her once—his heart slowing in her arms, his spirit on the edge of that shadowy abyss. She had dragged him back with love and desperation and the soul-deep need not to lose him.
She didn’t know if she could do it again.
Rowan stirred, as if sensing the chaos in her thoughts. His lashes lifted, revealing those steel-gray eyes that had always anchored her.
“You should go,” he said softly, his voice still hoarse but stronger than before. “They need you, Giselle.”
She shook her head quickly. “You need me.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, squeezing her fingers gently. “You’ll be able to see me the whole time. I’m not stepping off this porch.” A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Frankly, I’m not sure I could even if I wanted to.”
She let out a weak laugh, but the tension in her shoulders didn’t ease.
Rowan’s thumb brushed over her knuckles, slow and deliberate. “You’ve always had a heart big enough to carry everyone’s pain. Don’t let this moment shrink it.”
“I almost lost you,” she whispered, the words barely audible over the quiet murmurs and cries still echoing through the courtyard.
“But you didn’t,” he murmured back, his eyes locking onto hers. “I’m here, love. I’m here because of you. You saved me.” He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her fingers. “And I’ll be right here when you come back. I swear it.”
Giselle blinked hard, her throat burning. “You better be.”
“I wouldn’t dare do anything else,” he said with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his tired eyes.
She lingered for a few more moments, unwilling to let go… until finally, she exhaled slowly and rose to her feet. Her hand slid from his grasp reluctantly, but not before he gave her one final reassuring nod.
“Go,” he said, voice steadier now. “Be the Luna they need.”
Giselle turned, walking down the steps and into the sea of grief.
She moved from one cluster to the next, kneeling beside grieving women, whispering words of comfort, offering the strength that had carried her through her own heartbreak. Sometimes she said nothing at all—only held them as they wept, lending them her quiet presence when words would never be enough.
But every few minutes, her gaze would lift and drift back toward the porch.
And each time, Rowan was there, watching her with a faint smile, his eyes soft, his hand resting over his chest as if to say I’m still here.
It was that look—that simple, silent promise—that kept her grounded. That gave her the strength to keep walking, to keep comforting, to be the Luna her people needed.
Even as her heart stayed tethered to the porch, to the man who had come back to her when she needed him most.
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